Soul of the Void
by Unravelling
Summary: Sacrifice. The word was imprinted into his very being. It danced on his tongue, pounded through his veins and burned in the depths of his soul. Aedan Cousland embraced his death atop Fort Drakon, but it was not to be. Instead, something that never should've existed is brought into a world woefully unprepared and an ancient threat that has slumbered for millennia stirs in its wake.


**Prologue - Of Beginnings & Ends**

As he stood there at the end, amidst blood and fire and the screams of a dying god, his thoughts turned inexplicably to the beginning; to a monumental betrayal and the family stolen from him.

He saw again, as he did every night, visions of an innocent boy and a sister in all but blood, bodies broken and left to rot. Of his beloved parents, who'd stayed behind to stare treachery in the eye before it claimed them and of his ever-vibrant brother, lost to the wilderness of the Korcari, forever unknowing of the fate that had befallen their House.

For Aedan Cousland, whose ears would forever ring with the echoes of Rendon Howe's last desperate scream, there was nothing left now but the oath and the blade and the emptiness that festered within.

A deep breath is drawn, tasting of smoke and death, as his gaze roamed over a landscape of chaos – drinking in every detail, every _facet_ – because _this_ was one of those moments, when the senses were distilled to purest clarity and the mind honed to a razor edge and for one brief instant, the entirety of the world seared itself into memory; it was one of those moments that a man would remember till the last dregs of life faded from his eyes.

It was the kind of moment that the world would remember for the Ages to come.

He paused then, with the wind lashing his face, and found himself pondering how Garahel had felt four hundred years ago, when _he'd_ stood there before _his_ foe, on the precipice of life and death.

Had _he _decided, long before the first swords had clashed at Ayesleigh, that he would strike the final blow? That he would make that sacrifice? The histories spoke volumes of his vanity, his charisma and ultimately his bravery, but had he gone to his end, willingly, with a smile?

He wondered at the kind of man Garahel had been, the kind of life that he'd lived...

But that was _then_ and this was _now_, so Aedan dragged his thoughts back and turned to the man that had stood at his side since that dark day at Ostagar.

His stalwart friend, his…'brother'.

His _king_.

Alistair looked him in the eye for a long moment, a weary sigh rattling past his lips as a tired smile stole across his face. It was in jarring contrast to the bloodied skin and the haunted gaze, but Alistair smiled anyway and clapped a heavy hand to his shoulder. Both men knew there was no turning from the path laid out before them and so when his king spoke, his eyes glimmered with veiled emotion but his voice held steady and there were no words wasted on arguments or questions.

"May you walk forever after at the Maker's side, brother."

Aedan nodded once, a curt, grim acknowledgement.

"And may He guide your hand in the days to come…brother."

His final words were softly murmured, ripped away by the howling wind, but he caught the other man's slow nod and that was enough, for both of them.

Then he turned, pulled on his helmet, and walked away.

As each measured stride carried him closer and closer to the inevitable, he found himself wondering.

He wondered how Alistair would speak of this moment on the morrow to a kingdom wounded, but united and victorious.

He wondered how the historians would write of this moment, a hundred years from now.

And he wondered if a thousand years on, when the blights were all but myth, would the children tussle before their wargames for the right to be the last Cousland atop Fort Drakon; as he had, once, to be Carinas at the Silent Plains.

Then the beast was before him and he wondered no more, the rest of the world fading 'til all that remained was the dragon and the blade in his fist.

Watched by unwavering amber eyes, he took a step, then another, muscles tensed to move at the slightest twit-

Like a snake, the coiled neck snapped forward, a great, lunging flail of bone, scale and teeth. He shifted to the side, tilted his shield _just so_ and the fanged maw of the beast glanced over tempered silverite, crashing past him to halt amidst crumbling stone.

Without hesitation, he gripped the worn hilt with both hands – one steady and firm, the other still trembling with a bone-jarring pain – and stepped forward, driving the shimmering blade deep into ancient flesh. As it screamed, flailing in agony, he dragged the buried edge across and out in a spray of dark blood and broken scales, leaving a long gaping wound that stretched along its bared violet neck, stained in deep crimson.

The dragon fell, like a puppet with strings cut, but _still_ it clung to life – the flaring nostrils, flickering eyelids and the tell-tale whistle of a punctured windpipe struggling to draw in air told him that much.

Living, but thoroughly broken, he decided as he stood there, in easy reach of that great fanged jaw and yet untouched; otherworldly though it might've been, the unmistakeable glint of defeat shone bright in those tainted golden orbs as it shifted helplessly before him. And yet, gazing upon this ancient foe – beaten and cast down at his feet – he felt strangely subdued.

No heady rush of joy surged through him, no thrumming pride shivered beneath his skin, no savage grin of victory twisted his lips; instead, his thoughts returned to his dead family – avenged – and of the long sought peace that would finally come now, with the end.

He smiled; a reticent quirk of the mouth that no one would ever see.

Then Aedan of House Cousland, last of his line, raised the ancient blade of Highever – radiant and keen as the day it was forged-

And the world vanished in a blinding, emerald flash.

* * *

><p>Let it never be said that Jean Colbert lacked faith in his students. To most of his charges, he may have appeared unchanged – still dutifully watching over the summoning ceremony in the same studious stance he had maintained since dawn broke over the horizon – but a particularly perceptive observer would say that he looked ready for a fight, as the last of the participants stepped forward.<p>

Nobody would've questioned him, had they even noticed it; a glance at the array and who stood chanting before it would've likely sent most of his colleagues running for the hills, but Colbert preferred to keep his wariness as subtle as possible.

After all, Louise de la Vallière was a model student who'd dedicated countless hours towards understanding the considerable bulk of theoretical magical knowledge. His thoughts drifted to memories of her first year, when she had broached an idea with him regarding the non-violent applications of fire magic. He had smiled brightly at her, deeply impressed, and encouraged her to explore the practicality of it privately. That had been before he'd understood the prevalence and severity of her unique 'problem'; at the time he'd only been confused at the crestfallen look she'd sent his way as she pivoted and stormed off.

Now, as he watched over her at this critical juncture in her life as a mage and as a noble, he could only pray to the Founder that the girl was allowed to find some measure of magical success; it would be a _waste_, after all, for a daughter of the Heavy Wind to pass into obscurity like _this_.

Still – here, the soldier within whispered – he had not survived half a lifetime's service on hope or prayer, and so Colbert found himself standing there – poised to move – muttering the words of the quickest barrier spell he knew as the girl approached the finale of the incantation.

The explosion that punctuated the Vallière scion's last shouted word was equal parts unwelcome and unsurprising. The rumbling echoes of its discharge rang in his ears and the roiling cloud of dust shrouded the greater part of the courtyard, forcing him to narrow his eyes to see the vague shapes that were his students brushing themselves off.

His gaze slid around until it settled on a lonely crumpled shape and he strode briskly to her side, a weary sigh escaping as the jeering taunts began on cue, like clockwork.

It was as he bent to a crouch by her side, reaching out to grasp her slim shoulder that it hit him.

Like a solid wall, the stench of blood and smoke and death rolled over him, igniting flashing images of leaping fire and echoing screams that had haunted him for two long decades. A tangible aura of dread crept down his spine and Colbert felt the tell-tale moisture forming on his palms that heralded a sensation he'd grown unfamiliar with in his complacent semi-retirement; _fear - _deep and primal.

The soldier - buried but never _truly_ dead - snapped to life and he cleared his mind, extended his will and found an ocean of anguish – of pain and anger and hate, amalgamated in a maelstrom of power that raged from somewhere in the vicinity of the array.

He jerked away, flinching at the inherent sense of wrongness that screamed silently through the air, just in time to hear the very real sound of grass shifting beneath a considerable bulk. In a flash, he'd stepped in front of Louise, a brief glance turned on her revealing a pale look of fear and disconcerted confusion, and he realised that even _she_ – untrained and unblooded as she was – could feel _it_.

Whatever_ it _was.

The mocking taunts continued in the distance but uncharacteristically, Louise ignored them, wide eyes fixed intently ahead as the beginnings of a nervous whimper slipped from trembling lips.

Another sound of wet grass and shifting earth drew his gaze back to the fore and he hushed the girl with a quiet grunt. It would be uncommonly bad luck for her first magical success to be the summoning of a dangerous familiar – it was meant to be impossible, after all - but the smell and the sounds and that _aura_ had set his nerves alight and his body was wound tight with the tension that always came before a fight.

Following the line of Louise's stare, he blinked, squinting into the dust where a large, vague shadow faded in and out of focus some fifteen yards ahead and he was just murmuring the first words of a minor wind spell when an unholy, ear-piercing shriek rent the air.

Sharp, stabbing agony shot through his head but unlike his student – who clapped hands to ears and shut her eyes against the pain – he never lowered his guard, only allowing himself the barest wince, his staff levelled and ever-ready as the incantation rolled smoothly from his tongue.

When the conjured breeze swept through the courtyard, he was prepared for anything.

Or so he'd believed.

For that first long moment, he – and every other being in the vicinity, human or familiar – could only stare in frozen silence at the massive dragon coiled not twenty paces away, an ingrained reaction to the sudden presence of a creature far above in the food chain – an apex predator.

A frenzied sort of murmuring broke out amongst the crowd, of awe and astonishment. Louise, caught between desperate joy and uncertain disbelief, moved to step past him and closer to the creature she undoubtedly believed to be her rightful familiar.

Colbert barred her way with an outstretched arm and ignored her perplexed questions, never taking his gaze from the beast.

It was a vicious thing, he thought, its body wrought from deep purple scale and wreathed in long spines that seemed to leap from a hideously contorted hide – a far cry from Tabitha's sleeker, smoother and distinctly smaller familiar. A cursory scan noted the ripped membrane of its wings before settling on the myriad projectiles buried in its heaving flanks – arrows, spears and the unmistakeable form of the Germanic _ballistae_.

He was contemplating the implications of this when a second impossible anomaly strode almost casually into view.

The ornately armoured figure of burnished silver and gold seemed to simply _appear_, materialising from the shadow of crumpled wings to stand by the beast's monstrous jaws, sword and shield in hand as unfathomable eyes stared down from the depths of a winged helm. Colbert was close enough to see the flicker of something akin to familiarity in the deep, amber orbs of the dragon as its gaze slid upwards and he stepped forward, a greeting call dancing on his tongu-

**EGO SUM URTHEMIEL**

The deafening intonation was silent to his ears, echoing instead in the very core of his mind and Colbert stumbled mid-stride, eyes snapping to the unmoving snout of the beast – as if to confirm the impossible. The squeak of elated surprise that escaped the girl at his side and the furious whispering that erupted from behind pushed it beyond doubt, and yet he could only continue to stare, dumbfounded, as the unintelligible words of a dragon resounded through his very thoughts.

The helmet tilted to one side, an almost innocent gesture of curiosity, and Colbert could only think that it was an absurdly placid reaction in the presence of a thought-speaking dragon. He was still watching the unlikely pair, struck by the unshakeable sense of familiarity with which they seemed to regard each other, when that thunderous voice sounded again in his mind.

**EGO SUM SEMPITERNUS**

And as if that second echoing rumble was a trigger, the winged helm was ripped away with a sudden bark of harsh laughter – revealing a young man, far younger than Colbert had expected.

A faint murmur of words passed from man to beast, a fluttering of the lips that the professor could barely make out as the man gazed down at the beast, an oddly serene smile pulling at pale features.

And then, without any further warning, as two score pairs of astonished eyes watched on intently, the sword was raised high – radiant in the midday sun. A desperate voice screamed from his right – _"NO!"_ – but before Louise de la Vallière could take a single step forward, that shining blade was already buried deep in the great horned skull of the dragon.

In the moment of silence that followed, Louise fell to her knees, a broken, discordant wail that scratched at his heart seeping from quivering lips. Jean Colbert turned – to comfort, to reason, to reassure-

And the world erupted in a torrent of brilliant golden light, a sudden, intense storm of power that drowned all else.


End file.
